


A Whiter Shade of Pale

by king_finn



Series: What A Wonderful World [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Drowning, First Kiss, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Huddling For Warmth, Hypothermia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:22:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26797294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/king_finn/pseuds/king_finn
Summary: He frowns, walking towards where he last saw Jaskier – somewhere a hundred feet away or so – looking around frantically. It’s not as if the snow is deep enough for the bard to hide in, or that he could’ve run into the treeline, somehow. Geralt would’ve seen Jaskier if he’d run, the treeline is too far away. Not to mention that he would’ve heard his footsteps.It doesn’t make sense.At least, it doesn’t until he’s halfway between where he was collecting flowers and where he saw Jaskier last. It doesn’t, until he nearly slips and falls on a smooth surface. It doesn’t until he hears ice creaking threateningly under him as he shifts his weight to keep his balance.Geralt finds out the hard way that the field Jaskier had been standing in wasn't a field at all, but a frozen lake.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: What A Wonderful World [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951405
Comments: 12
Kudos: 373
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	A Whiter Shade of Pale

**Author's Note:**

> Day 3 of Whumptober 2020! Today's prompt is: water!
> 
> Title from A Whiter Shade of Pale by Procol Harum.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy, and don't hesitate to leave kudos and a comment!

One second Jaskier’s there, the next, he’s gone.

Geralt drops the flowers he’s been collecting for a potion, straightening as he looks over the snowed-under field stretching out in front of him. He’d been occasionally looking up, checking in on Jaskier every few seconds as the bard played around in the snow a bit – laying down to make an angel, making small snowmen that are now littered across the field, throwing snow in the air and looking on with a smile on his face as it gently falls back down.

But sometime between the last time Geralt looked, and now, Jaskier has simply… vanished.

Geralt rubs his eyes. Maybe it’s just the light reflecting off the snow that’s playing tricks on him; but when he looks up again, Jaskier still isn’t there.

He frowns, walking towards where he last saw Jaskier – somewhere a hundred feet away or so – looking around frantically. It’s not as if the snow is deep enough for the bard to hide in, or that he could’ve run into the treeline, somehow. Geralt would’ve seen Jaskier if he’d run, the treeline is too far away. Not to mention that he would’ve _heard_ his footsteps.

It doesn’t make sense.

At least, it doesn’t until he’s halfway between where he was collecting flowers and where he saw Jaskier last. It doesn’t, until he nearly slips and falls on a smooth surface. It doesn’t until he hears ice creaking threateningly under him as he shifts his weight to keep his balance.

He looks down, wiping the thin layer of snow away with his foot, his worst suspicions confirmed: this isn’t a field at all. It’s a frozen lake.

His heart skips a beat before it starts racing, cold panic an dread flooding him as he starts running. The ice gasps and groans, but holds up under his feet. It’s only when he sees a dark spot where cold water has washed over the ice, melting away the snow, that he slows down, careful not to step on any spot that might be too thin to hold his weight.

More careful than Jaskier had been, apparently. There’s a large hole in the ice, and Geralt’s quick to take off his armour, hands fumbling with the buckles, as he tries to control his breathing. The last thing either of them needs is him hyperventilating or having a panic attack.

He shivers as he strips down to his smallclothes, tossing his things to the side, before plunging into the freezing lake.

Cold water envelops him immediately, and he struggles not to seize up, to lose control over his muscles. He takes half a second to gather himself, then, he starts swimming, down, down, down, towards Jaskier, who’s near the bottom of the lake by now, arms hanging limply above him, hair floating around his head, skin pale.

His lungs struggle to hold in air as he swims and swims, impossibly far down; his chest is burning by the time he reaches Jaskier. He quickly grabs Jaskier’s shirt, hauling him up and holding him against his chest, as he plants his feet against the rocks at the bottom of the lake, pushing himself up towards the surface.

After his initial momentum has died down, he starts kicking his feet, one hand pushing down water, the other holding Jaskier tightly to him – but the combined weight of both of them proves a harder task than he thought it would be, the cold water making his muscles seize up, the lack of oxygen getting to him sooner than he thought it would.

He struggles to get them closer to the surface, black spots already dancing in his vision, fingertips and toes growing number by the second. He kicks harder and harder, muscles burning, lungs spasming as his body desperately screams for air. His grip on Jaskier starts to falter, and he has to still for half a second to readjust his arm, to make sure Jaskier doesn’t slip away and starts sinking to the bottom of the lake again.

Finally, he breaches the surface, gasping in lungfuls of fresh, crisp winter air. He stays there for a few seconds, until the black spots have disappeared from his vision, until he no longer feels like he’s going to pass out any second.

Then, he puts his hands under Jaskier’s armpits and hoists him up onto the ice, sliding him away from the jagged and frail edges of the hole, before they break off and take Jaskier down with them again. He pushes himself out of the water, crawling towards Jaskier, where he’s laying limply in the snow, face pale, lips blue.

He turns Jaskier on his back, putting two freezing fingers against the bard’s neck. No pulse.

He tries to push the panic away, not really managing, as his own heart starts to beat faster and faster, dread settling in his bones as he tilts Jaskier’s chin back and pinches his nose shut. He leans forward, pressing his lips over Jaskier’s, pushing in a lungful of air, before pulling away and breathing in deeply, repeating the action once more.

He puts his hands over Jaskier’s chest, the heel of his hand pushing into the wet doublet, and he realizes in the back of his mind that even if he manages to get Jaskier to breathe again, the bard might die anyways of hypothermia – especially if he keeps those wet clothes on. But that’s a worry for later.

For now, Geralt pushes down. He closes his eyes in horror as he feels Jaskier’s breastbone snap beneath his fingers, trying to keep down the bile rising in his throat whenever it shifts against his palm. Up, down, up, down, up, down. He tilts Jaskier’s head back, pushes more air into his lungs. Up, down, up, down, up, down. His muscles burn, still not fully recovered from the lack of oxygen, screaming out their displeasure against this sudden onslaught of activity.

Up, down, up, down, up, down.

His lips sealing over Jaskier’s, pinching the bard’s nose between his fingers, and breathing out as forcefully as possible, seeing Jaskier’s chest rise in the corner of his eye.

Then, suddenly, Jaskier pulls away and to the side, heaving and retching as he throws up rivers of water onto the snow and ice, coughing and spluttering as his body struggles to get it out of his lungs.

Geralt sighs, relieved, and he slaps Jaskier on the back as the bard continues hacking up more and more water, desperately gasping in air.

“Fuck,” Jaskier mutters, voice raw. “What…”

“You fell through the ice,” Geralt says, hand still on Jaskier’s back, rubbing soothing circles into his wet doublet. “Nearly drowned.”

Jaskier turns on his back again, teeth clattering as he shivers, eyes fixed on the pale, blue sky. “Fuck.”

“Hmm.” He pulls at Jaskier’s shoulders, managing to get him to sit up, before he starts pulling at those wet clothes. “Let’s get you into something dry.”

Jaskier nods, clumsy hands pulling at his expensive – now drenched and ruined – clothes haphazardly, goosebumps rising along his arms and legs. “C-c-c-cold,” he stammers, nearly biting his tongue as his teeth clatter together relentlessly.

“I know,” Geralt says. “Hold on.” He reaches for his dry clothes, a few feet away, tugging his shirt over Jaskier’s head as Jaskier pulls on the breeches. The clothes are too big for the bard and cold from lying in the snow all this time, but dry nonetheless.

He leaves his armour and Jaskier’s wet clothes on the ice – he’ll return for those later – as he gathers Jaskier in his arms, pressing him against his chest. He makes his way over to the shore, careful to step around any thin spots in the ice, lest they get a repeat of what happened a mere fifteen minutes ago, releasing a soft sigh in relief when his feet touch solid ground again.

He lowers Jaskier on the ground next to Roach, who looks at them curiously as he starts pulling cloaks and blankets out of her saddlebags, wrapping them around Jaskier. With a knife, he cuts off a few low-hanging branches from the trees – he doesn’t have time to search for firewood – laying them on the ground in a haphazard pile, lighting it with a quick _Igni._

“Geralt,” Jaskier mutters, and Geralt’s immediately by his side, frantically searching Jaskier’s face for any sign that he might be falling asleep. “Geralt,” Jaskier whispers again. “Y-your clothes.”

Geralt frowns, looking down and realizing he’s still in his smallclothes. He curses softly, pulling a clean shirt and breeches out of his pack, quickly putting them on before gathering Jaskier’s still trembling form in his arms, rubbing warmth into his back.

“I’m tired, Geralt.”

“I know,” he says, pulling Jaskier’s head into his shoulder, casting the smallest _Igni_ he possibly can, hovering his warm hand over Jaskier’s back, making the bard shudder. “I know. Don’t fall asleep, Jask.”

Jaskier doesn’t respond, and Geralt panics, frantically rubbing more warmth into Jaskier’s back, moving him closer to the fire.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he whispers, heart beating painfully loud as cold panic floods him. “Don’t you dare die on me, Jask.” His breathing is shaky, eyes stinging as tears start to gather. “’I’ll never forgive you if you die. I love you too much to lose you, godsdammit.”

He rocks them both back and forth gently, still trying his best to warm Jaskier up, to keep his heart from stopping.

It feels like hours – though it can’t be more than a few minutes – before he finally feels Jaskier stir against him, weak arms coming up to grab the back of Geralt’s shirt, to pull him close. Jaskier sighs, mutters something against Geralt’s shoulder, and Geralt has to pull back a bit.

“What was that?”

“I love you too,” Jaskier mumbles against his shirt.

He stills, not sure if he heard that right. “You… you love me?”

Jaskier nods, tilting his face up. There’s a healthy blush to his cheeks, and his lips are no longer blue, eyes open and aware and sparkling, and Geralt can’t stop the sigh of relief that escapes him.

“I do,” Jaskier whispers.

“Well, I- I love you, too.”

Jaskier grins up at him, and the sight of him so alive and happy nearly makes Geralt weep – he’d been so sure he’d lose Jaskier, not so long ago, he’d been so sure he’d never get the chance to see him smile again. “I know, Geralt, you already said that.” He reaches up, planting a small kiss to the corner of Geralt’s lips. “But say it again.”

Geralt smiles, ghosting his lips over Jaskier’s. “I love you.”

“You know,” Jaskier mutters. “I don’t think our very first kiss went well – I was a bit preoccupied with dying, you see. I want to redo it.”

Geralt smiles, softly capturing Jaskier’s lips with his own. It’s a chaste kiss, lasts no more than a second, but it’s already more than Geralt ever could’ve dreamed of having.

“Hmm,” Jaskier muses. “I don’t know…”

“Want another redo?”

“Yes, please.”

And, well, how can Geralt say no to that?

**Author's Note:**

> Tomorrow's prompt is: buried alive! If you want to be notified when tomorrow's fic goes up, don't hesitate to subscribe to the What a Wonderful World Series!
> 
> Also I'm on tumblr, @king-finnigan.


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